


On My Way

by aguantare



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn looks up from his case file, cup of coffee halfway to his lips. Niall is standing in the doorway of his office, suit jacket unbuttoned and arms crossed. He looks relaxed, casual, and Zayn imagines he was one of those people in law school who was friends with everyone and went out for drinks at the bar on Thursdays and still pulled top grades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me
> 
> A/N: I feel like 3L year has just sucked every ounce of creativity out of me, so writing fic is kind of like pulling teeth at the moment. But I'm trying, and this is the result. Feedback is love. <3 I'm also [back on tumblr](aguantare.tumblr.com) because who doesn't need more distractions? :P

New York in the depths of winter is cold. Zayn’s breath forms silvery puffs of vapor in the dim, pre-dawn light as he steps out of the front door of his flat and tucks his keys into his coat pocket before pulling on his gloves. In the ten seconds or so that it takes him to do that, his fingers are already starting to ache. 

The walk down to the subway station is short, barely 5 minutes, but it feels like longer in the dark and the cold. He passes the BMWs and the Mercedes that line the streets in this neighborhood, knowing for a fact that there are far more expensive vehicles sequestered away in the heated garages underneath the apartment buildings and condominiums lining these narrow streets. Zayn’s still paying off his loans from law school; once he’s squared those away, maybe he’ll get himself a car, but until then, it’s the subway for him, and he doesn’t really have much of a problem with that. Those 20 minutes on the subway to and from work might be the most peaceful moments of his day. 

He stops by the Starbucks on the mezzanine level of the station, gets his usual double-shot espresso. The cup warms his gloved hands while he waits for the train. The train arrives at 6:04 AM, and by 6:30, he’s walking through the 20th floor glass doors of Latham & Watkins LLP. 

-

“Mr. Malik?”

Zayn looks up from the memo he’s editing, hoping the secretary standing in his doorway is bringing him something, /anything/ to interrupt the wasteland of boredom that is eminent domain law. 

“Mr. Stringer wanted to remind you about the 10:30 meeting with the Pearson merger working group.”

Not for the first time, Zayn makes a mental note to himself that if and when he ever makes partner, he won’t demean the secretaries by sending them across the office to deliver meeting reminders. Partners bring in the money, but secretaries make sure the practice actually works day to day. 

“Okay, thanks Abigail.”

“No problem.”

She disappears from his doorway, and Zayn turns back to the memo on his desk. It’s from one of the senior associates and while Zayn knows he’s hardly the best legal writer out of the firm’s 250 lawyers, he really, truly thinks he could have done a better job than the mess of information currently in front of him. Latham is one of the biggest, and most prestigious, law firms in the country, and they only hire from the top 10 lists of the top 10 schools in the country. Zayn thinks a lot of people would be surprised to find out that those kinds of credentials mean just about fuck-all when it comes to actually being a good lawyer. He was lucky during law school to have worked with some very good attorneys, and some of them had been top-10 material, but many others had not. 

Zayn sighs, picks up his pen to resume his work. He doesn’t love this, doesn’t even really like it, but it was an available job in a tight market, and he knew exactly what he was getting into when he accepted the offer--the eighty-hour work weeks, the intra-firm politics, the big money and the even bigger egos. The bottom line, at least for the next five years or so, are his loan payments; this job is more than adequate to meet those, and that security, he figures, is really all he can ask for at this point. 

He has two hours until the meeting, and if he’s lucky, he can get the majority of this memo edited by then. He’s behind already on his billable hours for this month, but if he can get the memo done, and the meeting doesn’t last more than three hours, he can spend the rest of the day doing billable work and he might be able to be out by 11 PM.

-

“Alright everyone, thanks for coming. Hope you grabbed some coffee and donuts on your way in.” Mr. Stringer, senior partner, is an imposing man, tall and broad shouldered. During his first year, someone told Zayn that Stringer had played “college ball” which Zayn had to look up in order to understand. Despite his physical appearance, he seems to be one of the more decent senior partners in the firm; in his three years here, Zayn’s never heard his name come up as someone to avoid. In a place like Latham, he knows that says a lot. 

“Looks like everyone’s here,” Stringer says, looking around the conference room table, “Let’s get going on introductions so we can get down to business.”

They start at the far end of the table, with a group of suited up men and women who Zayn vaguely recognizes as representatives of their corporate client. They all introduce themselves as CEOs and chairpersons. Next are a couple of the senior partners, and an associate from the China law group who’s sitting in on the meeting because their client has a branch in Shanghai. The next few are people Zayn doesn’t recognize at all. The first one stands up, and Zayn takes one look at his clearly bargain rack suit and tie and knows he’s not a partner or an associate. Not that Zayn’s judging; if he could have saved $200 on his workplace attire without sacrificing his reputation, he would have done it in a heartbeat. 

“Hi everyone,” the man who’s just stood up says, and he’s got an Irish accent and a relaxed, open smile, “My name’s Niall Horan and I’m a staff attorney that Latham’s brought in to work on this case.” 

Staff attorney, Zayn thinks to himself. Makes sense why he hasn’t seen him around then. They’re often part-timers at most, or work from home, unless they’re brought in on a big case like this. 

A couple more people introduce themselves, and then it’s Zayn’s turn. He gets to his feet and looks around the room without actually having to meet anyone’s eyes. Funny how he can go into a federal court of appeals and lay down a coherent, complex argument in front of three of the court’s sternest judges, but when it comes to telling people his own name, he still worries about sounding stupid. 

“I’m Zayn Malik and I’m a 4th year associate in the M&A group.” 

As he sits back down, his gaze catches momentarily on the blonde Irishman—Niall—who’d introduced himself earlier. He gets a smile and a little nod, and, not knowing what else to do, Zayn returns it. 

-

“Didn’t know there were any other Brits here at Latham.”

Zayn looks up from his case file, cup of coffee halfway to his lips. Niall is standing in the doorway of his office, suit jacket unbuttoned and arms crossed. He looks relaxed, casual, and Zayn imagines he was one of those people in law school who was friends with everyone and went out for drinks at the bar on Thursdays and still pulled top grades. 

“Don’t think your countrymen would take too kindly to being called Brits,” Zayn points out, sitting back in his chair and motioning to the chair opposite his desk. He doesn’t actually have tons of time to take out of his day and socialize, but he’ll be working with Niall fairly extensively over the next few months, so it’s an investment of sorts, a way to smooth the path for future interactions. 

“Funnily enough,” Niall says, taking the proffered seat, “One of the other staff attorneys, after the meeting, took me aside and said my accent and yours were the same and wanted to know whether you and I were from the same part of the UK.”

“Life in the US,” Zayn observes dryly. 

“You went to school here right?” Niall asks after a moment. 

“Yeah, I did. You?”

“Northwestern,” Niall answers. He glances around at the plain, unadorned walls of Zayn’s office. 

“Are you one of the modest ones, then?” he asks, lips quirking upward at the edges.

“What?”

“Well, pretty much everyone here is an Ivy League grad, yeah?” Niall explains, “But there are two types: there’s the ones who frame their diplomas and hang ‘em front and center in their offices, and then there’s the ones who won’t even tell you which school they went to, much less put their diploma on display.”

Zayn smiles a little, thinks he might not mind working with Niall for the next three or four months. 

“I guess I just prefer to let my work do the talking,” he responds. Niall nods.

“Fair point. Fourth year associate, right?”

It’s Zayn’s turn to nod.

“Had a Saturday off yet?” Niall asks, gently teasing. Zayn smiles obligingly and shakes his head.

“Not yet. Maybe this year though.”

“Sounds rough,” Niall observes, and it’s just that, just an observation, neither condescending nor pitying. Zayn shrugs.

“It pays the bills,” he says. Niall chuckles a little.

“All that matters, right?” he asks rhetorically. He gets to his feet, smoothes down his tie. “Should probably get going, but just wanted to stop by and say hi.”

“Sure,” Zayn says, getting to his feet as well, “Probably be talking again soon in any event.”

Niall leaves, and Zayn retakes his seat. It only takes him about ten minutes to get his focus back and re-immerse himself in his case file.


	2. Chapter 2

Zayn has to be in court for a completely unrelated matter the day of the next work group meeting for the merger. It runs late, and it takes a good bit of restraint to keep from throwing something at the judge for being an insufferably poor time manager. By the time he gets back to the office, the meeting has already been in session for half an hour and even though he told Stringer he might be late, he hates walking in like this, hates feeling like he’s not on top of his shit, no matter what the cause might be. 

The only seat left open at the table when he ducks in, trying to be as quiet and inconspicuous as possible, is one near the back of the room, between Niall and one of the other junior associates. He manages to get back there and maneuver himself into the seat without tripping or banging his briefcase against the back of one of the senior partners’ heads, but he can still feel his face burning. 

He reaches down to retrieve a pen from his briefcase, and when he comes back up, there’s a yellow legal notepad on the table in front of him with four bullet points written out. _Timeline_ , the first one reads, _end of wk for initial docs, 24 hr turnaround for edits_. Brilliant, Zayn thinks. There goes his whole weekend. _Staff attys split b/t drafting & negotiating teams,_ the second one reads. Okay, not really relevant to him. _Manage client expectations, but don’t piss them off_ , the third one reads. Zayn suppresses a smile. Somehow he doesn’t think that’s the way Stringer phrased it. The fourth one reads, _Williams v.Gordon Inc. – wtf is this case, look up, apparently important_ , and Zayn actually has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cracking up at that one. It reminds him inexorably of his law school notes, which were usually a combination of the professor’s words verbatim, and his own frustrated interjections when the professor went off on a tangent or said something that made absolutely no sense. 

He takes notes for the rest of the meeting, which only lasts about another twenty minutes. When it ends, he turns to Niall and holds up the legal pad.

“I’ll type these up and get them to you by the end of the day,” he says, “Thanks, by the way.”

“Thank /you/,” Niall responds, “For showing up when you did. In case you couldn’t tell by my incredibly eloquent notes, I completely lost the plot after he mentioned the Williams case.” Zayn smiles as he grabs his briefcase and heads for the door of the conference room, Niall close on his heels.

“I don’t know it either,” he admits, “Guess we’ll both be making good friends with Westlaw this afternoon.”

“Ugh,” Niall says, deliberately exaggerated. They get to Zayn’s office, and Niall hesitates for a second at the doorway.

“You’re on the drafting team, right?” he asks, drumming his fingers on the door frame. Zayn nods.

“Do you have some time right now?” Niall asks, “I’m assigned to the drafting team and I want to bounce some ideas off you, if you’re not busy, that is.”

-

They spend three hours spinning out ideas and issues, brainstorming even the dumbest and most improbable points and counterpoints. Zayn quickly realizes that Niall has a particular knack for business and the law, can spot potential problem spots far more rapidly than Zayn can. He doesn’t get too bogged down in details, and he doesn’t take too wide of a view either. When they toss around some wording for the documents they have to draft, Niall keeps it simple and concise and to the point, something Zayn has always had trouble doing because he wants to explain everything. Sometimes that’s needed, but in documents that undertake a multi-million dollar merger, quality, not quantity, is definitely the name of the game. 

When they’re done, Zayn’s taken about 5 pages of notes on his computer and they’re kind of all over the place, but he’s fairly certain he can make sense of them if he doesn’t let them sit for too long.

“I’ll write these up now and send them over to you,” he says as Niall stands up and stretches. 

“Right now?” Niall asks, glancing at his watch, “Don’t you want lunch or something?”

Zayn looks at his own watch. It’s been about 8 hours since he last had anything besides coffee, but if he takes an hour to eat now, that’s an hour later he’ll have to stay at the end of the day. 

“Nah, not that hungry,” he says. 

Niall pauses in the doorway of Zayn’s office.

“Weren’t you in court this morning?” he asks.

“Yeah, master calendar hearing,” Zayn replies, rifling through some papers on his desk, “Why?”

Niall shrugs. 

“No reason. See you around.”

-

An hour later, Zayn’s just typing up the last of the notes from the morning meeting and his brainstorming session with Niall when someone knocks on his closed office door. 

“Come in,” he says without looking away from his screen.

“Catch,” a familiar voice says. Half a second later, a plastic bag with a footlong Subway sandwich bounces onto his desk. The smell of toasted bread, cheese and onions assaults his senses, and his stomach gurgles. He looks up at the doorway and finds Niall standing there, suit jacket off, can of Coke in hand. 

“Got you the vegetarian,” he says, “Wasn’t sure if you keep halal or not.”

Zayn blinks down at the sandwich, caught completely off-guard.

“I—what? No, I don’t. I mean—thanks.”

Niall half-smiles.

“No problem.”

He leaves, and Zayn unwraps the sandwich, has to exercise some self-control to keep from just scarfing it down all in one go. It’s a welcome change from the mystery-meat Super America sandwiches or 2-ounce bags of Cheez-its he usually eats for dinner, and he allows himself to acknowledge that it’s the best meal he’s had in what feels like forever. 

-

“Staying late?”

Zayn lifts his eyes from the latest round of edits on the merger documents, realizes he’s been sitting here for hours because it’s dark outside. He raises a hand to the back of his neck, tries to rub the stiffness out as Niall steps into his office. 

“Yeah, just want to get through these edits before I go home,” he replies, motioning to the seat across from him. Niall sits down; he’s not wearing his suit jacket or his tie, and his hair is a little disheveled, like he’s run his hands through it repeatedly. 

“Why are you still here?” Zayn asks, “Don’t you max out at 40 hours a week?”

“Yeah,” Niall replies, “Taking Friday off though, moving to a new flat.”

“Got it.”

“You live in the city?” Niall asks.

“20 minutes on the subway, give or take,” Zayn responds, leaning back in his chair and feeling the stretch in his back, “Convenient, quiet, etc. Little posh for my taste but. You know how it goes.”

“Mm,” Niall hums an acknowledgment, “Gotta make sure you’re boasting the right post code, right?”

Zayn not-quite smirks at Niall’s perceptiveness. 

“Been trying to figure your accent out ever since that first meeting,” Niall says next, “Northern, right? But not Manchester or Liverpool. Leeds?”

“Close,” Zayn responds, a little impressed, “Try about 15 kilometers west.”

“Bradford?” Niall asks, and waits for Zayn’s nod of affirmation. “Interesting. I feel like you’ve got a bit of Geordie going on too, though.”

“Yeah, my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend was from Newcastle.” The response is out of Zayn’s mouth before he even realizes it. It’s the first time since he started at Latham that he’s told anyone about that, even in passing. 

“Law school ex, or pre-law school?” Niall queries, and from other people, that kind of question would feel probing or invasive, which is why Zayn stopped mentioning it in the first place, but the way Niall asks the question doesn’t feel accusatory in any sense of the word. 

“Pre-law school,” he clarifies, “Back in England.”

Niall eyes him for a few seconds, fooling absentmindedly with the cuffs of his shirt. 

“England’s not home?” he asks eventually. 

“What do you mean?”

“’Back in England,’” Niall repeats, “Not ‘back home’?”

Zayn shrugs, looks down at the documents on his desk. 

“You know how it is,” he says, fiddling with his pen, “You go overseas, things change.”

Niall hums a quiet acknowledgment, and when Zayn looks back up at him, the expression on his face says he knows perfectly well Zayn isn’t telling him the whole story, but he’s not going to push it. 

“So, now that I know you’re a northerner,” he says instead, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling them back, “Please tell me you’re not a United fan, or I might have to disclaim any connection with you.”

-

Halfway through his first year at Latham, Zayn had sat in on a meeting for a case that he was only nominally involved in. There, he’d watched one of the senior partners absolutely destroy another partner, using the shreds of her personal life, which she had apparently confided to him, to completely discredit her in front of the entire working group. It was the end of her career at the firm, and from what Zayn heard later through the office grapevine, she hadn’t ever returned to the legal profession.

Lying awake in his bed at 3 AM and replaying his conversation with Niall in his mind, he can’t help thinking about that meeting.

-

“Help.”

Two weeks and two rounds of edits later, the merger documents are supposedly close to being in final form, but the contract that slides onto Zayn’s desk at 9:30 AM on a brutally cold February morning has one sentence underlined that, even at first glance he can tell is problematic. 

“That has to be redone,” he says, rather unnecessarily.

“I know,” Niall replies, “But we’ve been staring at it all morning and everything we try to substitute just creates twenty new problems. It’s like a fuckin’ Hydra.”

Zayn smiles humorlessly and stares at the sentence—clause 2--for ten, fifteen seconds. 

“If you take out the first part, what other parts of the contract does it affect?” he asks. Niall leans his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to recall.

“Clauses…5, 8 and 12,” he says after a second, “Oh, and 13. Well, it basically nullifies 13. Which, you know, might piss off our clients. Just a little.”

Zayn flips the page over to look at clause 13. Yes, he realizes after reading it, yes, nullifying clause 13 will definitely piss off the clients. Can’t nullify that. 

“What if we just modify the first part?” he asks, “Change ‘all obligations’ to ‘all reasonable obligations’?”

Niall reaches across Zayn’s desk to take the paper back so he can look at it. 

“Means we’ll have to change clause 5. And 6. Right?” he says, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“Are those the ones dealing with subsidiary corporations?” Zayn asks.

“…yeah.”

“That’s gonna piss them off but not nearly as much as clause 13,” Zayn observes. 

“Stringer seems pretty intent on giving them whatever they want,” Niall notes, setting the paper down on the desk. 

“Yeah.” Zayn purses his lips. “Don’t see us getting smacked down for suggesting it though.”

He shoots off an email to the head of the working group, summarizing the discussion he and Niall have just had and asking for his thoughts on it. By the end of the day, he’s pretty much forgotten about it entirely. 

-

Two days later, at their weekly work group meeting, the head of the working group stands up and suggests that they modify clause 2 from “all obligations” to “all reasonable obligations,” and change clauses 5 and 6 accordingly. He doesn’t even look at Zayn as he says it. Stringer likes the idea. 

“Kudos for coming up with that,” he tells the head of the working group, “I know that was a real sticking point for the drafting team.”

Zayn feels Niall’s eyes on him as Stringer adjourns the meeting, but he resolutely avoids his gaze as he gathers his things up and heads back to his office. He can sense Niall following him.

“You know that was your idea,” Niall says, stopping at the threshold of Zayn’s office. 

“It’s just how things go,” Zayn replies flatly. 

“…I know,” Niall says after a long moment, “I’m just saying. It was your idea.”

Zayn takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Reaches for a stack of papers that have already been organized, starts to organize them again. 

“Yeah,” he acknowledges, “Well, hopefully it’ll help the firm and our clients reach the result they want.”

Niall stands in his doorway for a few moments longer, but doesn’t say anything more. When Zayn looks up again, he’s gone.


	3. Chapter 3

February bleeds into March. The merger hits snag after snag, and Zayn bills a ridiculous number of hours, drinks gallons of coffee, and loses track of anything that’s happening outside the four walls of his office. There are meetings, and phone calls, and more meetings, and emails where no one actually answers any of the questions he has, and the first Tuesday of the month, he ends up spending the night on the couch in the break room. 

“You look like hell,” Niall says when he sees him the next morning. 

“Thanks,” Zayn responds. His voice is unattractively hoarse and his eyes feel scratchy and dry. He hides a yawn behind one hand, reaches for his coffee mug only to find that it’s half full with yesterday’s coffee, cold and stale. It’s a testament to how worn out he is that he half-considers drinking it. Niall must see the consideration on his face because he steps into Zayn’s office and takes the mug from him. 

“I just brewed up a new pot in the break room,” he says, “I’ll get you some.”

Zayn presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and catalogs the stiffness in his muscles. What he wouldn’t give for a hot shower, right about now. 

Footsteps sound in the hallway, and a second later a cup of freshly brewed, steaming coffee is sliding onto the desk in front of him, along with one cream and one sugar. It takes him a second to realize that Niall must have been paying attention at previous meetings to know how he likes his coffee. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles. 

Niall drums his knuckles lightly on Zayn’s desk, watches him pour the cream and sugar into his coffee. 

“Gonna be here late again tonight?” he asks. Zayn takes a sip of the coffee, savors the heat and the taste and the promise of at least some sort of impending energy boost. 

“Yeah, probably,” he replies. 

“Think you can set aside some time for dinner?” Niall asks. Zayn presses his palms against the sides of the coffee mug to warm them up. By dinnertime, he’ll have been inside the office for almost 36 hours; he probably should make an effort to go out. 

“Alright,” he says, and Niall’s smile complements the warmth seeping into his hands, “6:30?”

“6:30,” Niall agrees. 

-

The place that Niall chooses for dinner is a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place, well off the beaten path, a slightly worn red white and green door adorning the front entrance. They’re the only non-Latinos in the place, and they’re also the only ones in suits and ties, but Niall greets the waitress with a cheery “Buenas noches!” and proceeds to hold an easy conversation with her that tells Zayn he comes here often. They get a booth near the back, tucked away from the noise of the kitchen and the cold blasts of air when the front door opens. Niall orders a Corona, and after a second or two of indecision, Zayn orders one as well. He has to go back to the office after this, but he figures one beer isn’t going to detract all that much more from his already sleep-deprived concentration. 

“I have to say,” Niall says after their beers and a basket of tortilla chips and salsa have arrived, “You don’t strike me as the big-law type.”

“Why’s that?” Zayn asks, squeezing the lime into his beer and bringing it to his lips. 

“You seem like you care about your work, instead of the money,” Niall replies with a half-smile. Zayn shrugs a little; it’s a fair point. 

“I guess,” he acknowledges, “The money’s nice too, though.”

“Yeah. No arguments there. Your parents worked while you were growing up?”

“Yeah. My dad was a factory worker, my mum worked in the schools.” For a second time talking with Niall, Zayn realizes he’s said way more in one sentence than he has in three years. No one else at the firm knows what his parents did or that they were working class. For all they know, he was born and raised in money. 

“You get back to see them much?” Niall asks, plucking a chip from the basket.

“No, not much,” Zayn replies, conscious of how short his answer is, but not wanting to give away any more than he already has. Part of him thinks maybe Niall would understand, or would at least listen if he were to go into the whole story, because Niall seems to listen to all his answers. But part of him is still questioning /why/ Niall listens so intently, what is he trying to gain from Zayn’s answers. 

“Not a huge fan of flying,” he adds after a moment. It’s not a lie, although it’s not the reason he doesn’t go back to England much either. Niall looks across the table at him for a second or two, like maybe he’s seen right through Zayn’s deflection. 

“Don’t suppose you get much vacation time, either,” he says finally.

“Couple weeks a year,” Zayn responds, “Usually don’t have enough notice to book a ticket though.” He reaches for the chips, dips one in the salsa. “You get back much yourself?”

“Once in awhile,” Niall says with a nod, “Depends on the timing.”

Zayn nods, takes another swig of beer. Sometimes he has a shot of whiskey when he gets home from the office, but most nights he just falls into bed. He honestly doesn’t even remember the last time he drank socially. 

“So. You must not have anyone waiting for you at home.”

Zayn snaps his gaze back to Niall’s at the statement. It’s an instinctual reaction more than anything, and Zayn thinks the blame has to lie with his lack of sleep and an excess of caffeine for his inability to mask it as quickly as he usually would be able to. Niall squints a little at him, tucks the corner of his mouth inward. 

“Sorry,” he says, and he sounds, and looks, like he actually means it, “Personal topic. I understand.”

Zayn picks at the label on his beer, watches a few beads of condensation slide down the side of the bottle. 

“I work a lot of hours,” he offers as an explanation, “Not a lot of time for anything else.” It’s a half-truth, at least. That the second half of that truth is, “I don’t trust you with any more information than that” doesn’t make the first half any less true. 

Niall lets the silence hang for a few seconds, and Zayn appreciates that. Some people would try and push, would try and get more out of him, by asking him more questions, or explaining their own situation in a bid to get him to respond. Niall’s silence signals to him that he’s not going to do either. 

“You never did tell me where you went to law school,” he says eventually, raising his beer to his lips. 

“Give you three guesses,” Zayn responds, holding up three fingers. Niall swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Three guesses,” he says, “Okay. I can do this. I think. Harvard?”

Zayn puts one finger down.

“Strike one,” he says. Niall furrows his brow, holds Zayn’s gaze for a moment, like maybe that’ll give him the answer. 

“Columbia?” 

“Strike two.”

Niall raises an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s gotta be Yale then, doesn’t it?”

Zayn puts his hand down and reaches for his beer. 

“Jesus, man,” Niall mutters, “No offense but. I can’t believe you keep that a secret, in this profession, at Latham and fuckin’ Watkins.”

Zayn shrugs.

“I guess it’s like I said before: I want my work to do the talking.”

“Graduating from Yale Law does a fair amount of talking all on its own,” Niall points out. Zayn levels him with a pointed look across the table. 

“You angling to become my own personal cheerleader, Horan?”

Niall takes a long pull on his beer, draining it almost all the way. 

“Yeah,” he says as he sets it back down, “That, or, you know. Maybe a friend.”


	4. Chapter 4

On the first official day of spring, Zayn wakes up with a 102 degree fever and aches over what feels like every inch of his body. The room spins a little when he sits up and the only thing he wants to do is lay back down and close his eyes again. He sits there for about 30 seconds or so, blankets pooled around his waist, trying to decide whether today is a day he can give up, and he’s about 20 seconds in when he remembers that end of day today is the deadline to have the final drafts of the merger documents in their clients’ hands. 

“Fuck,” he says to the empty room around him. His throat hurts even from that momentary exertion. He registers, vaguely, that there’s rain pounding against the bedroom windows. 

He stumbles to the shower and has to brace his arms against the walls to keep from falling over, but 15 minutes of standing under the steaming hot spray makes him feel at least marginally better. He counts it as a success that he doesn’t slip and crack his head open as he’s getting out. 

Nothing sounds good for breakfast, so he skips it, opts for a cup of coffee instead. The caffeine makes him feel slightly better still, and he thinks maybe he’ll be able to get through today after all.

Then his umbrella breaks halfway to the subway station. 

-

_Zayn. Zayn._ Zayn.

“Zayn?”

Zayn opens his eyes. He sees a cream colored wall, and the edge of a desk. Someone’s shaking his shoulder.

“What,” he says, or at least tries to say. His throat closes up halfway through and he starts coughing, which makes his head throb and his midsection ache. He shoves his face into his forearm so he’s not spewing germs all over the place, and when he doesn’t feel like he’s going to hack up a lung anymore, he forces himself to sit up. 

Niall’s standing next to him, one hand still on his shoulder, and he takes one good look at Zayn’s face and says,

“You need to go home.”

Zayn goes to shake his head, but then thinks better of it; right now, his head feels so heavy he’s legitimately afraid it might just roll right off his shoulders. 

“Can’t,” he replies. His throat also feels like someone went over it with shards of glass, so talking isn’t exactly more pleasant than moving. 

“What else do you have to do before end of business hours?” Niall asks. 

“That file,” Zayn responds, pointing to the overstuffed manila folder on the edge of his desk. Niall picks it up and flips through it while Zayn presses his face into his hands, tries to remember if he has any tylenol stashed away in his desk. 

“I can do this,” Niall says after a minute or so, “Most of this is tied in with what I’m working on anyways.”

“I’m fine.”

“Go home.”

“Niall.”

Niall huffs out an impatient noise.

“You know for an incredibly intelligent person, you’re being incredibly dumb,” he says, and even in his somewhat diminished capacity, Zayn thinks he sounds almost fond, “Go. Home.”

Zayn scrubs a hand through his hair, still damp and completely unkempt from his impromptu shower this morning. Going home does sound good right now. Fantastic, even. 

“Fine,” he says, “Fine, I’ll go.”

“Good,” Niall declares, “Take my umbrella with you—it’s hanging outside my office. Also, give me your phone number. I’m going to call you this evening to make sure you aren’t dead.”

“No.”

“Oh wait, I think they gave us a firm directory with mobile numbers when we first got here, didn’t they?”

“Fuck off,” Zayn groans, but he reaches for a post-it note and scribbles his phone number onto it even so. 

-

It’s dark outside when Zayn jolts awake, back in the relative comfort of his own flat. He’s on the sofa in the living room, hadn’t even had the energy to make it to the bedroom, and he’s still wearing his shoes and tie, although apparently he’d had the wherewithal to shuck his suit coat before lying down. Not that it really matters at this point because the whole suit’s probably ruined from the rain anyways. 

The source of his rude awakening is his phone, ringing insistently away on the coffee table. He swipes for it and glances at the time—7:30—before answering. 

“Yeah, this is Zayn.”

“Oh good, you’re not dead.” Niall sounds like he’s outside somewhere, the wind blowing into the mouthpiece and muffling his voice. 

Zayn presses one hand over his eyes, trying to ease the pressure he can feel building in his sinuses. 

“Nope. Still alive.”

“Great. Then you can let me in, yeah? It’s fuckin’ freezing out here.”

Pause.

“You aren’t,” Zayn says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I am. Seriously man, let me in. Me toes are about to fall off.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you got my address,” Zayn grumbles, sitting up. The room spins sickeningly around him and he curses, has to try three times to get himself up on his feet. 

“Pretty easily, actually,” Niall responds, “Abigail saw you staggering out earlier and I told her I was coming to check up on you. Didn’t even have to ask twice.”

“Abigail is nice,” Zayn says, rather nonsensically. He punches the button on the speaker panel by his front door, and a couple seconds later, the ambient noise on Niall’s end of the line goes quiet. 

“Ah, blessed warmth,” Niall says, sounding relieved, “Thanks. Which number is your flat?”

Zayn unlocks his front door and opens it, and a moment later, Niall appears in the doorway. He’s got his phone in one hand, and a paper grocery bag in the other, and as averse to having anyone see him in his current condition as he is, Zayn is kind of hoping there’s hot tea or chicken noodle soup or something equally stereotypical inside the bag. It takes him an extra second or two to notice that Niall’s traded the suit and tie for jeans and a sweater, and he looks. Different. In a good way. 

“For christ’s sake, take that tie off,” Niall says as Zayn steps back to let him in, “It’s making me uncomfortable just looking at it.” Zayn closes the door behind him and follows him into the kitchen, undoing his tie on the way.

“Here,” Niall says, setting the bag on the island in the middle of Zayn’s kitchen and pulling out a travel mug, “Tea with lemon. Got some soup too but it’ll take a minute to heat up.”

“’kay,” Zayn replies, taking the mug, “Mind if I go back to the sofa?” Niall rolls his eyes.

“Yeah man, I’m going to be super offended if you don’t sacrifice your health to keep me entertained.” He takes out two Styrofoam soup containers and turns around, eyeing the cabinets. 

“Bowls are on the far left,” Zayn offers as he heads back out to the living room, tea in hand. 

“Cheers.”

Zayn slumps back down on the sofa to the sound of clinking dishes and silverware. The first sip of tea is hot, almost burning his mouth, but it soothes the rawness in his throat and takes the edge off the pressure in his sinuses, so he gulps down some more. In the kitchen, he hears the microwave kick in, and a couple minutes later, the flat is filled with aromas that remind him inexorably of home. 

He closes his eyes for what feels like just a minute, but next thing he knows Niall is shaking him awake and holding out a bowl of soup in front of him. He takes it, and Niall sits down across from him, setting his own bowl of soup on his lap. 

“There’s more for you if you want it,” Niall says, “But I’m starving, so I’m having me own bowl while there’s still some left.” 

Zayn manages a smile. He’s not a big fan of being mothered, but Niall’s irreverent approach helps. The soup is good—simple, straightforward chicken noodle soup, no weird ingredients like kale or purple carrots, and Zayn hadn’t even realized he was hungry, but apparently he really, really was. When he’s done, he sets the bowl on the coffee table, picks the tea up again and slouches down on the sofa, rests his head in the gap between the two back cushions. 

“My mum used to make chicken soup, when I was sick,” he says, watching Niall stack their empty bowls and spoons together, “She was a terrible cook otherwise, but her chicken soup was ace.”

“Did you get sick a lot when you were a kid?”

“No, but there were four of us, so there was always a pretty good chance that at least one of us was sick.” Zayn tilts his head a little against the cushions and eyes Niall for a second, wonders if Niall realizes he now knows more about Zayn than pretty much anyone else in the world. 

“I miss them,” Zayn says after a few moments of silence, looking down at the mug in his hands.

“You don’t see them much,” Niall says, and it’s not really a question, but Zayn shakes his head anyways. It makes the room spin, so he closes his eyes for a second until the dizziness passes. 

“Not at all,” he clarifies. He picks at a stray hangnail, wonders if he’ll regret what he’s about to say next. “My parents, they uh. Never really got on board with the fact that I liked guys instead of girls.”

Niall is quiet. Zayn doesn’t look up at him. Maybe he should have just stuck with the “not a big fan of flying” excuse he’d given Niall before. 

“That sucks,” Niall says finally, “I’m sorry.”

Zayn shrugs, still not looking all the way up. 

“Nothing to apologize for, yeah? Just the way it goes.”

Niall huffs out a breath.

“Yeah but.” He stops. “I’m just sorry that that’s what you’re up against.”

-

Niall stays for another hour or so, heats up a second bowl of soup for Zayn and makes them both a pot of tea on Zayn’s stove. They talk about family, about law school, about their respective careers at Latham. Zayn learns that Niall has an older brother, that he got a C in his first-year Torts class, and that he almost missed his first interview at Latham because he misread the bus schedule. In return, Niall listens to Zayn when he talks about his sisters and his absolute hatred for American constitutional law and how he’d taken the Latham job because it was really all that was available. Niall acts like he really cares, and it’s calm and comfortable and everything that Zayn has forgotten how to be. 

And yet even as Zayn allows himself to enjoy being heard, being listened to, being paid attention to like he’s more than just some mindless cog in a gigantic, complex machine, he wonders if and when this will come back around to ruin him.


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re looking almost human again.”

Niall slides into the seat next to Zayn in the conference room. He has two Styrofoam cups of coffee in hand, and sets one of them on the table in front of Zayn, takes a long slug out of the other one. 

“Feeling almost human too,” Zayn responds. Niall smiles, almost mischievously, and grabs Zayn’s notepad and pen, scribbles something in the margin. Zayn leans over to read it. 

_‘almost human’ is like a compliment in this place!_

Zayn bites down a laugh, mostly because it’s more than a little true. 

Stringer strides in and gets the meeting going, and the first fifteen minutes or so is just embroidery, a lot of patting themselves on the back for meeting deadlines and keeping the clients happy. Zayn catches Niall’s eye and raises an eyebrow; Niall scribbles another note on his notepad. 

_gold stars for everyone!_

The negotiation team reports on their progress next, and it’s green lights all around, everything’s prepped and primed for the final signing. Thank fuck, Zayn thinks to himself. There’s been plenty of sticking points on the drafting side, but the substantive problems have really been in the nitty gritty of the negotiations.

“Drafting team?” Stringer asks. Prior to the meeting, the team had agreed that Niall would present on their latest progress, which was yet another series of “final” drafts that met the latest client requests and didn’t break any laws. It was, collectively, probably the most tortured piece of writing Zayn had ever had the displeasure of participating in, but it was legal and it did what the client wanted, and that was his job, wasn’t it. 

“Yeah, so, we’ve come up with a draft that you’ve all got in the latest portfolio…” Niall starts talking, and Zayn sort of half-listens while he observes the way Niall seems to just effortlessly command the attention of the room. He’s confident, but not arrogant, and he talks about the material in a way that leaves no doubt about his knowledge without beating everyone over the head with jargon and legalese. People pay attention to him, take his suggestions and opinions seriously, /like/ him, and he doesn’t have to do anything to garner such respect, except be himself. Zayn thinks, belatedly, that maybe he could learn a lot from Niall.

“…and when we were spinning this out a couple days ago, Zayn pitched the idea that we should integrate the shares acquisition piece into the subsidiary corps clause…”

Zayn’s stomach folds over itself in a way it hasn’t done since the very first time he got cold-called in 1L year. Niall’s still talking about him, dropping his name in a way that sounds deliberate, at least to Zayn’s ears. And even if it’s not deliberate, the fact that this is the first time Zayn’s ever been mentioned by name at one of these meetings is enough to make Zayn very, very wary of what’s about to follow. His mind kicks into overdrive, playing back the conversations he’s had with Niall, everything he’s said, every personal detail he’s handed over, and trying to figure out how Niall’s going to use those against him, trying to come up with some way to counter the inevitable attack, or at least mitigate the damage. 

“…so, in conclusion, I think Zayn’s idea really tied it together and made it possible to hand this draft over in the shape it is.”

Stringer’s looking at Zayn like he’s not sure what to make of him, and Zayn feels a nervous sweat beading on his palms. He can’t even look at Niall right now, mostly because he’s afraid that if he does, he’ll see a smug self-satisfied smile. And while part of him would want to run up there and punch that smile right off his face, another part of him would just want to close himself in his office and cry. 

“Okay,” Stringer says just as the silence in the meeting room starts to stretch into uncomfortable territory, “Well thanks everyone. Barring any disasters, signing is on Thursday at 10. See you then.”

Zayn gathers his things in a rough bundle and all but bolts for the door. His hands are practically shaking as he retreats to the relative safety of his own office and tosses the bundle onto his desk. A stack of papers slides off and onto the floor but he doesn’t go to retrieve it, just presses his palms against his desk and hangs his head between his shoulders, trying to collect himself. He hasn’t had a reaction like this to /anything/ since first-year law school finals. Oral arguments in front of the 2nd Circuit Court of Appeals gave him ulcers, but it didn’t send him into a full body panic. 

Okay, he thinks to himself, drawing in a deep breath and forcing himself to let it out slowly. Damage control is his top priority. Anything that goes wrong between now and Thursday with the contract is going to come down on him, and given the way Niall was dropping his name in that meeting, something is going to go wrong. What kind of catastrophe could Niall orchestrate to torpedo this merger? Pretty much anything, Zayn realizes. They’ve been neck deep in these contracts for months now, they both know them inside and out, and Niall is anything but dumb. Jesus, Zayn thinks to himself, he’s so screwed, and he should have seen it coming, the way Niall had worked himself inside his trust without Zayn even realizing it and then turned around and used it against him when he was least expecting it. He thinks about all their conversations over the past half year and wonders what other pieces of his personal life will come to light before he can escape the fallout on this. Wonders if he’ll escape the fallout at all. 

“Hey.”

Zayn looks up and Niall is there in his doorway, and the fact that he’s just standing there, all casual and smiling like he didn’t just /throw Zayn under the fucking bus/, it makes something inside Zayn snap. 

“What are you doing here?”

The smile drops off Niall’s face and he checks the hallway before stepping into Zayn’s office.

“Just wanted to check in with you after the meeting,” he says, “You beat a pretty hasty retreat.”

“No shit,” Zayn spits, “Can’t imagine why I would’ve wanted to do that.” He can feel the heat rising under his collar, the swell of anger.

A deep furrow appears in Niall’s brow and he reaches for Zayn’s office door to close it. When the latch clicks shut, Niall turns back around to him, and there’s something almost wounded in his expression, which just makes Zayn angrier because it’s more manipulation that he’s not going to fall for. At least not anymore. Somewhere underneath the anger, he thinks, there’s hurt, too, but he won’t let himself feel that now, won’t risk showing that to Niall.

“What did I do?” Niall asks, his voice low. Zayn wants to spit, swear at him, but he catches himself, just in time, because Niall is still a co-worker, still a colleague, and in the grand scheme of things, this is just how the game is played, isn’t it, this is part of the job, Niall’s just doing his job.

“You sure are good at setting someone up for a fall,” Zayn says, proud of how calmly his voice comes out, “And you can even make them feel good about it while they’re doing it.”

Niall looks at him for a long moment, still frowning. And then his expression clears with recognition. 

“I didn’t,” he says, raising his voice just a notch or two, “Zayn, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I wanted them to know that the work was yours because it was really good work.”

“You threw me under the bus,” Zayn retorts, “Something goes wrong this week, guess who gets the blame now?”

Niall’s gaze slides away from Zayn’s, like he’s thinking. After a second he looks up at the ceiling, lips pressed in a tight line.

“I didn’t mean—“

“Didn’t mean for it to happen that way?” Zayn cuts him off, “Come on, Horan. You’re a little bit too smart to not have foreseen that consequence.”

“Jesus, Zayn, I didn’t think about it like that, okay? It’s not…I wasn’t trying to set you up. I wasn’t.”

He looks so fucking sincere, and Zayn just can’t take it because in the end, even though Niall’s the one who fucked him over, it was his own fault in the first place for trusting him. 

“Just, leave, please,” he says, grabbing for his chair and pulling it up to his desk so he can sit down, “I’ve got work to do.” He even reaches for a file folder on his desk, although the chances of him getting any comprehensible work done in this state are approximately zero. 

“Zayn.” 

Zayn shakes his head, opens the file folder and grabs the first piece of paper inside, stares at it as if he’s actually reading it. 

The silence in his office is deafening. 

Eventually there are shuffled footsteps, followed by the door clicking quietly shut. Zayn stares at the memo in his hands for a few more minutes, trying to get the fragility of Niall’s voice when he said his name out of his head.


	6. Chapter 6

Zayn spends the next three days waiting for the hammer to drop. Every time someone knocks on his office door—closed now, even when he’s inside—he expects it to be Stringer or someone equally senior coming to ask him what the hell he’s done, why is the merger coming apart at the last second. By Thursday morning, signing day, his back and shoulders are aching bundles of soreness and he’s got so much caffeine and ibuprofen running through him that the croissants and fruit laid out in the conference room for the signing don’t even look all that good to him, despite the fact that he didn’t have any breakfast. 

He gets himself a croissant and some coffee anyways, and heads for a seat near the back of the room, nods a greeting to some of the other junior associates who are already there. He tries not to pay too much attention as other people filter in, including their clients, but he’d be fooling himself if he said he didn’t notice one particular blonde-haired figure walk into the room just ahead of Stringer himself. 

Stringer gets things going after a few minutes shaking hands with the clients and the other company’s representatives. Zayn half-listens, more focused on the three appellate briefs that just landed on his desk this morning and the obscene briefing schedule that was attached to them. Given Stringer’s good mood, he’s going to go ahead and assume that, contrary to what he was expecting, the merger has not hit any additional snags, and he’s not going to go onto the shit-list, at least not yet. 

Maybe he owes Niall an apology. Or maybe not. Maybe Niall tried to pull some strings and things didn’t fall the way he’d hoped. There’s still no doubt in Zayn’s mind that what he’d done was intentional, that for all his protests, he’d been setting Zayn up. He still hasn’t quite figured out the motive for it—it’s not like Niall’s in competition with him for a position or that they’re opposing counsel. But hell, Zayn thinks, people go after each other in this business for a lot less than direct competition. Stick enough type-A personalities together and put them under pressure and bad things are bound to happen.

“…and one of our associates, Zayn Malik, did a really excellent job in the run-in to signing. We really owe him a lot of thanks for making sure everything was tied together and there were no loose ends in the final product.”

A lot of heads turn towards him, and he’s never been that comfortable with multiple pairs of eyes on him, but there’s really only one pair this time that he’s absolutely dreading meeting. He forces himself to look anyways.

Niall is looking back at him, and he doesn’t look smug or angry or anything else that he’d be well within his rights to be at this point in time. Instead he looks almost sad and. 

And maybe Zayn definitely owes him an apology. 

-

Of course, Zayn is also a coward, at least in some aspects. He dallies in his office, makes a few calls to the court to try and get an extension on at least one of his briefs, and just about manages to not yell at the poor clerk on the other end. When he checks his watch, he realizes it’s ten past five, which means Niall’s probably already gone home, and as he contemplates that, he realizes, as a subsidiary to that, that he doesn’t even know where Niall’s office space has been this entire time. 

“Shit,” he says to his empty office. 

As if on cue, there’s a knock on his door. 

“Come in.”

The door cracks open.

“Bad time?” Niall asks, not opening it all the way. Zayn shakes his head, beckons him in. He doesn’t feel at all prepared for this conversation but then again he probably never will. Niall steps into his office, closes the door behind him, takes the seat across from Zayn. Even from the other side of his desk, Zayn can see there are shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Guilt—and something else—squeezes unpleasantly at his gut.

“Look, I’m. I’m really sorry about. About accusing you the way I did,” he says, “It was uncalled for. I was way out of line and I owe you an apology for that.”

Niall nods a little, his expression calm, like he’s not even going to push back, and that just makes Zayn feel worse because he deserves push back, he shouldn’t be able to just absolve what he did with a measly apology. 

“You should be really angry at me,” he says before he can stop himself. 

“I’m not,” Niall responds, his expression not changing. 

“You should be,” Zayn repeats.

“Do you want me to be?” Niall asks. Zayn shoves back from his desk, frustrated, because Niall makes him want to answer questions like that, makes him want to spill out the jumble of thoughts and emotions inside him, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I don’t get what you want from me, alright?” he says, standing up and pacing a few steps away toward the window, crossing his arms tight over his chest, “That’s what I want, I want to know what the profit is for you in all this, what the benefit is. Because I’ve been over this a hundred times in my head, and I don’t fucking get it, okay, I don’t know what the hell you want.”

Niall is quiet for a long few moments. Then Zayn hears rustling fabric, and turns around to see Niall getting to his feet. He fixes Zayn with an unreadable look, his expression soft around the edges.

“Sometimes,” he says, “Sometimes the only thing someone else wants from you…is you.”

He leaves, and Zayn tries to remember how to breathe. 

-

New York in early spring is still cold, but Zayn doesn’t give a fuck. He forgot his gloves and scarf in the office and his fingers are ice cold and getting colder, but he can see his destination five doors down the block, he’s almost there. 

When he reaches the red white and green door that he’s only actually walked through once before, he says a quick prayer that his instincts are right and tugs it open. The hostess at the front desk is the same one as the first time he was here, and the expression on her face tells Zayn that she recognizes him. She gestures toward the back of the restaurant with a smile. 

“Gracias,” Zayn tells her, knowing his accent is terrible, but not really caring. 

Niall is sitting at the booth in the far back corner, Corona in hand. He looks up when Zayn approaches, and it strikes Zayn that this is the first time, in as long as they’ve known each other that he’s sought Niall out, rather than it being the other way around. 

“Great minds think alike,” Niall quips, half-smiling, but it’s as tentative as Zayn’s ever seen him. He slides into the booth opposite Niall, and for a second or two, neither of them say anything. Finally Zayn breaks the silence because he knows this is really on him now.

“I’ve been really stupid, haven’t I?” he says. 

“A bit, maybe,” Niall concedes, “But I was a bit stupid with the whole let’s-tell-Stringer-how-great-Zayn-is idea too. I reckon I’m a little bit stupid when it comes to you. Little bit stupid for you too, maybe.”

It’s Niall’s honesty, his directness, more than anything else that winds Zayn, makes him feel like he’s been slugged in the gut, even hearing it the second time around. He’s used to lots of talking that doesn’t say anything, lots of words that don’t actually mean much. He’s used to criticism and suggestions for improvement and even the occasional dressing down. He expects people to try and stab him in the back, and he’s pretty adept at parlaying those attempts without totally derailing his career. 

But.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Zayn says out loud, and it might be the truest thing he’s said in years, “I don’t know how to…trust you. Or—“ _care about you_ is how he intended to finish that thought, but the whole sentence is so cringeworthy he aborts it halfway through. He does care about Niall. At least he thinks he does. It’s been so long since he let himself care about anything or anyone, he’s not sure he’d recognize the sentiment if it slapped him across the face. 

Which, now that he thinks about it, is maybe precisely what’s happened here. 

Niall doesn’t cringe though. Instead he just slides his beer across the table for Zayn.

“Doesn’t seem like people have given you much of a reason to trust them,” he observes while Zayn raises the bottle to his lips, savors the cool, acrid tang on his tongue, “I’d be a bit concerned, honestly, if you trusted me right off the bat.”

“I just,” Niall continues, looking down at his hands for a second, “I just want to know if. If this is a one way street or not. The whole being-a-bit-stupid-for-you part, I mean. And if it is, it’s fine, I don’t want to put you in a pos—“

“It’s not,” Zayn cuts him off. He slides the beer bottle back across the table, and when Niall reaches for it, Zayn closes his fingers briefly over Niall’s, holding him there just for a moment. It’s another first, the first time Zayn’s initiated contact, and it feels almost awkward to him, but the gentle, private smile that lights up Niall’s face in response is more than worth it. 

“Definitely not,” he adds.


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh my god, why are you awake?”

Zayn glances sideways to find Niall peering blearily up at him from a rumpled nest of sheets and blankets. He checks the clock on his nightstand. 5:30 AM. 

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” he replies, “Want me to go out into the living room?”

“Mm, nope,” Niall responds. He sneaks an arm out from under the covers and tugs at Zayn’s forearm. “Come back down here.” Zayn obligingly slides down from where he’s sitting propped up against the headboard of the bed and lets Niall throw the sheets haphazardly over him. 

“One of the many perks of being a non-partner staff attorney,” Niall says with a loud, unrepentant yawn, “Is not having to go in to work until 9 AM like a normal human being.” 

Zayn hums an acknowledgment, rolling over onto one side so he can drape a careful arm across Niall’s back. It’s still new to him, this kind of intimacy, but he’s getting used to it, getting better at it. 

“Yeah,” he agrees as Niall huffs out a contented sigh and shifts a little closer to him, “Yeah, it’s nice.”

It’s been six months since Zayn got called into his year-end review meeting and walked out with the knowledge that he was no longer on the partner track. It was always a possibility, the proverbial Sword of Damocles that firms liked to hang over their associates’ heads to induce them to work harder. And getting derailed from the partner track was meant to be a defeat, meant to be a failure. 

To the extent that he believes that, Zayn has honestly never been happier to ‘fail.’ Latham had offered to keep him on as a staff attorney, with a pay cut (obviously), and a standard 40-hour work week, with full benefits. He had been happy to accept. He might not be able afford a BMW anymore (not that he was ever going to buy one anyways), but he can still make rent and loan payments every month, and more importantly, he’s out of the office by 5 every night. 

“Hey.”

Niall jabs an elbow lightly into Zayn’s side, drawing his attention. Zayn digs his fingers into Niall’s ribs in retaliation, and Niall grabs his hand. Zayn lets him. 

“I don’t think I left any ties here last time I stayed over,” Niall says, his face half-smushed into a pillow, “Can I borrow one of yours?”

“You know where to find them,” Zayn answers. Niall grumbles out something unintelligible and presses his entire face into the pillow for a few seconds before extricating himself from the covers and rolling gracelessly out of the bed. 

“Gonna shower,” he says, shuffling across the room in his boxers and one of Zayn’s old t-shirts, “Go back to sleep. Catch up on some of that sleep you missed the past four years.”

Zayn smiles a little and rolls over, happy to oblige. 

-

Zayn takes his time getting up and showering after Niall comes back in to get dressed, and even then, by the time he walks out of the bedroom buttoning up his shirt, it’s only quarter to seven. Niall is at the kitchen counter, brewing a pot of coffee. Zayn pads in behind him, goes to the fridge for a carton of yogurt and eats it directly out of the carton itself, just because he can. 

“Give me,” Niall says, turning around and seeing the carton in Zayn’s hand. Zayn turns over the carton and his spoon. Between them, they manage to finish almost the entire remainder of the carton by the time the coffee’s done brewing. 

Niall pours them each a mug, and they lean against the counters, facing each other, sipping at their coffee in comfortable silence. 

Eventually, Niall breaks it.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks. He’s asked that a lot over the months that they’ve been together, and it’s been a learning process for Zayn to figure out how to answer honestly. He’s still learning, even now. 

“You,” he replies, setting his coffee mug on the counter and closing the space between them. Niall’s got his tie on, but the ends are dangling loosely from his collar. Zayn reaches for them, does them up with a little extra concentration because it’s not quite the same as tying a tie on himself, and when he’s finished, he drapes his arms over Niall’s shoulders, crossing his wrists behind his neck. 

“I’m so happy,” he says, “That I’m with you. And that you’re with me.”

Niall smiles, bright, beautiful, for Zayn alone. 

“So am I.”

He’s not there, Zayn knows. Not yet. There are still things he can’t say, things he doesn’t know how to say, things he doesn’t feel like he has the ability or maybe the right to say. 

He’s not there yet. 

But he’s on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and dropped comments. <3 I feel like there might be a sequel in this, even if it's just a PWP, so this might not be the end of this universe quite yet.


End file.
